


Thus With All Guilt

by psiten



Category: Rope (1948)
Genre: BUT if you have abuse trigger issues you may want to avoid this fic, Brandon Being a Controlling Prick, Escalating Misbehavior, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reference to Brandon Shaw/Janet Walker, Whether Brandon/Phillip is abusive is debatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psiten/pseuds/psiten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Phillip wasn't sure that Brandon Shaw could breathe without being up to no good some days. He definitely couldn't be kneeling halfway through the door of the dormitory foyer with a handkerchief over his face without being up to no good. His ass looked too proud.</p>
</blockquote>Most people don't start out with killing a man. Brandon and Phillip were no exception.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elfgrandfather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! Since you mentioned your familiarity with the Leopold & Loeb murder, I took the liberty of using a few characterization notes from the case files, but for the most part this is the backstory that's been stewing in my brain since first seeing Rope over half a lifetime ago. Thank you for your lovely prompt! I hope you enjoy the result!

     Walking back to the boarding house from piano practice in the teachers' parlor, Phillip found himself hammered under a blanket of sunshine through the tree leaves, which he supposed were dappled and pretty. This is a well-maintained school, after all, for good boys from good families, most of them richer than his, sure, but it wasn't as if he was here on a scholarship or anything. They had nothing to laugh at him for -- and he wished they'd leave off sometimes. He'd taught more than one that he was just as good at boxing as he was at playing piano, but ever since Mr. Cadell had told him that he could only use the upright in the parlor as long as boys stopped showing up to the nurse with bloody noses...

     Well, if he had to, he'd find a way to get them that wouldn't show. They had it coming.

     As he turned one last well-manicured corner, who should he see but Brandon Shaw doing something at the dormitory with a handkerchief tied over his face -- but there was no doubt it was Brandon. He'd taken to slicking his hair back like their teacher, and maybe no one else had noticed, but Phillip certainly had. It'd be impossible not to notice. They even parted their hair on the same side now. Goodness knew where he'd gotten the brylcreem. He'd probably stolen it from Mr. Cadell's desk. That seemed like something Brandon would do. Phillip wasn't sure that Brandon Shaw could breathe without being up to no good some days. He definitely couldn't be kneeling halfway through the door of the dormitory foyer with a handkerchief over his face without being up to no good. His ass looked too proud.

     "Hey!" Phillip called out, running towards the boy, whom he could see now that he was closer was kneeling on a towel to keep floor dust off his trousers. Better to make this quick. "Do you wanna tell me what you're doing?"

     If he'd had even the least doubt as to who was in front of him at a distance, it vanished. Anybody else would've jumped and ran, or maybe made some excuse. None of the panic that any other boy might've had affected Brandon. Oh no, not him. He turned around and tugged the handkerchief off his face to show a broad, smug smile that perfectly matched his smug chuckle. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Phillip Morgan. And how's the teacher's pet today?"

     "I asked you what you were doing, Brandon." He smelled something awful on the air as he got closer to the building. "And what's that stink, anyway?"

     "Oh, just a p-present I brought back from my parents' farm. The thing about chickens is they lay eggs, you know? And my parents have ... well, they have just a devil of a time figuring out what to do with the rotten ones. I thought I'd do them a favor and have a bit of fun with them, that's all!"

     Now that Phillip thought about it, there was no doubt that smell was rotten eggs. He nearly gagged on the scent getting into his nose, more and more, until he got out his own handkerchief to filter it out -- not that it helped much. Leave it to Brandon to stink up their entire dorm. They probably wouldn't get the smell out of the wood for a month.

     "You have some gall. And every once in a while you should think about how your fun might come back to bite you, Brandon. Suppose you got into trouble for this, or any of the other things you do! What're you going to do if you can't get into college?"

     "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." Pulling his handkerchief back up over his face, as easy as could be, he got back up on his knees and took a glass jar from a stockpile behind the bushes that he must've been collecting for months. "My father's on the board at Columbia. There's no way I won't get in. Why, he's already said I can have the family apartment in Manhattan to live in while I go there. So you see, it's all settled."

     Phillip watched as Brandon pulled a junebug or something out of his pocket, stuck it under the glass jar, and lined it up in the dormitory foyer next to several dozen others. The shined-up hardwood planks were all but hidden by up-ended glass jars hiding bugs underneath. Wasn't that just the most "Brandon" thing he'd ever seen, too! First rotten eggs, and now this!

     "The eggs were just to clear everyone out of the building," the troublemaker went on, as if anyone had asked. "This is the real fun part. As soon as people come to check if the smell has cleared out, they'll find they can't even get to their rooms! Is... Isn't it brilliant? Everyone'll be talking about it for... for years, I suppose. It'll go down in school history as that legendary time someone blocked off the whole floor, and not even over semester break! Right under their noses! No one's ever done something on this scale before, certainly not while school's in session. I can't wait to hear them wondering who pulled it off tonight in the dining hall..."

     "Or while they're complaining who set them up, when Mr. Cadell has us chasing all these bugs out and mopping up rotten eggs."

     "You worry too much, Phillip. We'll have the underclassmen clean it up. That's what they're for."

     "Always have a plan, don't you, Brandon?"

     "Naturally. Now are you going to help me or not?"

     "Help you?!"

     "Well, you haven't gone off to report me yet, by which I have to assume you don't mean to."

     As if he would. "I'm no stool pigeon!"

     "I never said you were! It's not like you're David. He would've run to the headmaster right off." Brandon's eyes sort of sparkled, like water in a clear stream, and even without seeing his mouth (that damn handkerchief still hiding everything from his nose to his square-cut, perfect jaw). Phillip swallowed down a fluttering in his throat that seemed to him about equal parts wanting to drink a whole jug of water and wanting to be sick. It was probably the bad eggs. "But you see, Phillip... you've kept me talking so long, I might not finish before someone comes back and catches me at it -- and you, too, I might add. There's no way they'd believe you weren't in on it, you know, with you just standing here. But if you help me, it'd go twice as fast, and we'll finish before either of us gets caught. Now, see, you can take the jars from behind that bush over there, and I'll--"

     "I get it, just move. It'll go faster if you're not talking."

     He crouched behind Brandon, careful not to scrape his pants on the step or get his shoes in the dirt, feeding him jar after jar, and it certainly did go faster when Brandon didn't have to come out for all the jars he could carry every minute or two.

     "So, did you think this up because Kenneth has that phobia of anything crawly?" Phillip asked, dusting himself off. "I thought he might throw up after he saw that fly on his pen last week."

     Brandon's smile was even brighter than usual as he pulled off the handkerchief. "Is that so? I think I was out sick that day."

     "You mean skipping class."

     "Maybe you're not as much of a teacher's pet as I thought," the boy laughed as he folded up his towel and stuck that and the handkerchief in the laundry bag he'd brought out with him. "Walk me to the wash house?"

     He had nothing better to do, especially since he couldn't get into his room, so Phillip fell in beside Brandon as he walked away. "And what's that supposed to mean, teacher's pet? I'm not the one who stays up all hours to listen to the talks he gives the seniors or who asks all those cheeky questions in class. Are you sure you're not thinking of yourself?"

     "Oh, but he doesn't look at me the way he looks at you, Phillip! And that's not to mention the way you look at him, all wide-eyed and mooney, and I swear that's the only time you smile." Brandon's own grin seemed permanently stuck to his face now, probably mocking him like so many other smiles, but Phillip's hand was shaking at the sight of it for some reason -- too much to form into a fist. "Oh, or are you telling me it's a coincidence that you always go practice piano when he's taking his afternoon coffee? Tell me, Phillip, does Mr. Cadell come over and sit beside you on the bench to watch you play?"

     There was no fighting the blush rising in his cheeks, but how dare that Brandon talk that way about it! Mr. Cadell was allowed to watch him play if he wanted to!

     "Oh I see! So he does!" Brandon went on, laughing again with his trumpety bellow filling the yard. "Does he have you play on his lap, too?"

     "Now you cut that out, right now! Mr. Cadell doesn't do that, and he's not like that, and I won't have you saying things like that about him! For God's sake, Brandon," Phillip hissed, "we're in public, someone might hear!"

     Brandon waved off the idea that the boys throwing a rugby ball around the green might have been paying attention. "Still, you can't deny you're his favorite."

     "I can, and even if I couldn't, those are two very different things."

     Phillip's back hit the wall of the wash house, as hard as if Brandon had slammed him against it. For a moment, Phillip couldn't he sure the other boy hadn't done, but in the end Brandon's hands were full. The only weight pushing Phillip was the switch in Brandon's eyes from constant cheer to a dangerous sharpness while he walked closer. He'd seen that look before, but only when Brandon thought no one was watching. From the side, that sharpness had been a curious spectacle, where he'd wanted to know what his classmate was thinking. From straight on, looking those steel eyes right down the barrel, he felt like a bug pinned to the wall, completely exposed. The only question was, what was Brandon about to do?

     "You didn't deny you're sweet on him."

     "Do I have to? What's your problem, Brandon?!"

     "Oh, I'd say you're the one with the problem, Phillip."

     "Just... mind your own business! Take your laundry in before the cleaning lady leaves, then you can go your way and I'll go mine! Why, if you start up telling people that I'm... well, that I... Anyway, I won't think twice about ratting on you if you rat on me!"

     The smile came back. "So it's true."

     "I never said that. I only said... Damn you, Brandon. You won't get away with this!"

     The dirtbag's golden, bell-like laugh had no place in this situation, and Phillip clenched his fist tight, his thumb outside like his father had taught him, because he had every intention of walloping Brandon Shaw's too-perfect face so hard, it'd be plenty to break his thumb if he didn't do it right. It might lose him piano privileges for a week, but that was a price he'd gladly pay right now if it meant he got to punch Brandon square in the nose and hear it crack.

     "So if you're not sweet on Mr. Cadell, you wouldn't mind, say... stealing a cigarette from him?"

     "Excuse me?"

     "A cigarette! Well, two, I suppose." He winked, the cheer back in his eyes so fast, Phillip wondered if all the danger a second ago had been his imagination. "One for you and one for me. And honestly, it's not like I'm asking you to pick his pocket. Tell you what, I'll do the hard part. I'll get the cigarettes out of his case tonight when he's giving his talk. He always sets his case open on the table next to him, and he's too preoccupied with lecturing to notice if anyone touches it. So I'll take two cigarettes out of it. He won't even miss them! And then I'll hide them under that hollow-bottomed pot by the piano, where you can pick them up tomorrow when you go to practice. When you see them there, you'll know you can trust me... and when you bring them behind the boathouse to meet me, I'll know I can trust you. How does that sound?"

     "Easy as pie," Phillip blustered. He'd never let Brandon see him sweat, that was for sure. He might as well give in right then, and go home to enroll in public school or something, because he'd never hear the end of it from Brandon or any of his friends.

     "Then I'll know what to think if you don't show up. After all, you're already blushing. It makes sense, of course. You must be uncomfortable, thinking about betraying your three-letter man."

     "I'll be there, Brandon. You just see if I'm not! Now, why don't you drop off your laundry and get out of my sight until tomorrow?"

     "Just one more thing."

     Before Phillip could react, Brandon had his jaw locked in an iron grip, and swallowed his gasp of, "Hey, what--?!" with a kiss, right there against the wall of the wash house, where there wasn't even a shadow to hide in. He couldn't have been more startled, and his heart couldn't have pounded harder. The other boy's lips were sure, not trembling like his, and when he gasped for breath, he was certain Brandon would slip his tongue in far enough to choke him. Phillip wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed when it didn't happen. His first kiss, and it wasn't secret or sexy or anything he could have anticipated. It was just wet, at first, and everything he felt about it was something that came flooding in after as he looked at Brandon wiping the spit off his lips.

     The shaking. The heat in his stomach. The way his pulse wouldn't stop racing. The way he couldn't take his eyes of Brandon's mouth or its cocksure smirk.

     "Well, well, well, Phillip. Maybe I was wrong about who you were sweet on this whole time!"

     "W-what's that supposed to mean?"

     "Oh, don't worry. I'll keep your secret." Brandon hefted the laundry bag onto his shoulder, grinning like nothing had even happened. Maybe to him, nothing had, but Phillip didn't feel that way. "After all, I suppose it's my secret, too, now isn't it? You could say we're in this together. Either way," he leaned in to whisper, "now I'm the one you shouldn't be betraying."

     And all Phillip could wonder as he watched Brandon walk away, whistling, was how much of that he'd planned from the beginning. Because with Brandon, he never knew. But he could guess.

     All of it. Right from word one. And a cigarette was just going to be the beginning. It didn't seem so bad just then, though. He'd wanted to get a bit of his own back at this place, and if you could say one thing for Brandon Shaw, it was that he knew how to not get caught.


	2. Chapter 2

     The watch Brandon slipped out of Phillip's pocket while Phillip was taking his gloves off didn't seem to shine as bright in their apartment as it had on Brandon's grandfather's nightstand. It was silver, engraved with some bird or other on the front, and Brandon had been quite certain as soon as the will was read that it should be in his possession before one of his cousins beat him to it in the bargaining stage of splitting up the estate. Phillip had seen the jealous light in his eyes that always meant Brandon had a plan.

     "Did you see all of their faces when they couldn't find the watch?" Brandon said, flicking it open and holding it to the light to admire his prize. Leaving prep school and heading off to college -- even pulling strings to make sure Phillip got into Columbia as well when his entrance essay put him on the wait list -- hadn't changed Brandon a bit. "I thought dear Aunt Bertha might have a fit, going on and on about the staff not keeping proper track of valuables, and what was the accountant going to say about it! What an absolute success. Although you don't look like you're enjoying yourself, Phillip. Is something the matter?"

     The first comment to leap to mind was no good. He couldn't ask how someone was supposed to enjoy himself at a funeral at all. He could hear Brandon calling that sentiment "ordinary" from a mile off, and the two of them were anything but. They'd promised each other on so many days, and nights, that they'd never fall into the traps of society's ordinary social mores without noticing them, and entering into that custom for their own logical reasons. And they both knew, death wasn't really a bad thing. Not under the right circumstances.

     Fine, then. Something less ordinary.

     Phillip snarled his best at the row of coats on their hangers while he put his hat on the shelf. "Maybe I'm not disposed to enjoy being trotted out at someone else's family's funeral, just to be your bagman!" Brandon was blocking him into the closet when he turned around, looking positively mystified. And of course he was. Brandon had probably never felt out of place anywhere in his life, unless he felt like something was beneath him -- and if it was beneath him, why would he even be there to begin with? "How do you think I felt, huh? Your mother and your father, your aunts and uncles and cousins, all looking at me like they wondered why I had any right to be a mourner at your grandfather's funeral. And all for what? So I could be there when you hand off some heirloom watch you might've gotten by asking?!"

     "Phillip..."

     Damn Brandon, and the way he held on. His hand circled Phillip's wrist, just tight enough that Phillip could feel his pulse beating under it, speeding up as Brandon pulled him closer. And damn his lips, too, light and slow on the bare skin by the heel of his hand. His breath got under Phillip's cuff like a mist, only it tickled, and the sensation wouldn't quiet down. The dark closet in their Manhattan apartment was starting to feel too warm.

     The closet? Really? Brandon had always been so particular about never mussing up his clothes in all the years they'd been together. He'd get cross and have Phillip take everything to the cleaners that minute if he got so much as a sweat stain on his shirt, let alone anything more incriminating -- and if anyone found out what they got up to in the bedroom, there was no doubt they'd be arrested. Brandon had every right to be cross when he made a mistake like that. They'd be sure to get something on the coats and hats if they did it here...

     "Phillip, do you really think my mother and father don't know about us?"

     "Wait, what?!"

     His lover laughed again. He always laughed at moments that made Phillip feel like he was turning green inside. Dropping his hand like a passing thought, Brandon turned on the light and said, "My parents manage the cleaning and laundry service for this apartment, remember? They see how many sets of sheets show up on the bill when they pay it. So they asked me ages ago if I was fucking you, and of course I told them I was. Why shouldn't I? What other people think isn't of any consequence, is it?"

     "I just... didn't realize they knew, is all."

     "Oh, I..." Brandon looked down for a second, trying to look contrite, but like always, his smirk ruined the illusion. "I didn't realize you'd be so averse to people knowing I'm your lover. I can't take back what I said to my parents, but of course if you don't want to be seen with me--"

     "I don't mind being seen with you, and you know it! I'd like to be..." He blushed, still unable to outgrow the habit, while he looked for some way past Brandon and into the open air. "I'd like to be seen with you more often. You know I would. And not just as someone who happens to go to school with you."

     "So it's all right that I told my mother to expect you, next time I drive up to the farm?"

     "Well, yes, I suppose--"

     "Excellent. Then it's settled." 

     Brandon finally unbuttoned his own coat, just long enough to hook his new pocket watch onto his vest and tuck it all together. Then he buttoned it right up again.

     "You're not staying?" Phillip asked.

     "No, I told Janet I'd meet her for dinner, hence the rush to get home so soon. Why?"

     He shoved his own coat on its hanger into place, maybe a little more forcefully than was called for. "Leave it to you to say something like 'We're settled', and then go out on the town with that girl."

     That beautiful laugh was the only thing keeping Phillip company as Brandon walked out past the tidy line of coats. "Really, Phillip! One of us has to keep up appearances, and we both know it won't be you. What's the harm in meeting a witty young lady for a few drinks and a meal? It's all an act for the lesser people of the world, nothing to do with us!"

     Yeah, nothing to do with them. Nothing ever to do with them. He supposed he should've been grateful the girl didn't seem too keen on marrying Brandon so he'd never have to find out how far the charade might go. All the same, he'd been looking forward to a quiet evening in, just the two of them talking on the couch like the old days, before Janet had come along. The radio playing, and Brandon's fingers in his hair. Laughing together over a passage in Plato or Tolstoy instead of listening to Brandon laugh at the world. He liked the one laugh better than the other.

     There'd be other nights, he supposed. Better not to bring it up, if he didn't want to get mocked for being jealous again. That'd just drive Brandon further away.

~//~

     "Another?" the bartender asked.

     Phillip gave him a dirty look and a snarl. "Yes, another. What do you think I came here for?" Over at a distant table, Brandon's girl hadn't touched her soup for glaring. Brandon, of course, was in perfect humor, charming his way into her ever increasing fury. He could've charmed his way out of it, too. There wasn't anyone Brandon couldn't charm when he wanted to, but he liked to see how upset he could make Janet before he did it. "One of their fights," Phillip slurred at the barkeep when his brandy arrived. He lifted his glass at the table in a sort of toast. "They always fight."

     "Yes, sir," the bartender answered, hurrying away to shine the other end of the bar.

     So Phillip kept talking to no one. "I oughta go over there and offer to buy them a drink. Could get Janet an arsenic cocktail. No one'd ever know. Brandon might thank me."

     But he wouldn't. He didn't want secrets. Brandon liked knowing all the details and watching everything play out like he wanted. Maybe Brandon would thank him for the idea, though, if he remembered it by the time he got home. Phillip fumbled a pen out of his pocket, and tried to remember through the alcohol's blur how to spell 'arsenic' so he could write it on a cocktail napkin, but it wasn't to be. His attention was hijacked before he got past the A. Over at their table, Janet had stood up, smart and proud, and leaned over her untasted soup to say something to Brandon that probably wasn't that she loved him. Brandon took a sip of his wine before he stood to stop her from leaving.

     Brandon was nervous. He didn't usually have to wet his tongue before he could sweet-talk somebody. Had he pushed her too far for once?

     "Who would've believed it?" Phillip muttered for his captive audience of nobody.

     And Janet walked right out the door, too. How about that? Brandon wouldn't be at sixes and sevens for long, of course. He wasn't even going to chase her, not with a perfectly good soup on the table getting cold. Running after someone wasn't Brandon's style. That would involve caring.

     One thing Phillip hadn't predicted, though, was Brandon spotting him. While he was scanning the room to see if anyone was paying attention about whom he had to worry, his eyes zeroed in on the bar. So Phillip lifted his glass to him. What ought he to have done, hide?

     Walking through the tables like a shark swam through water, in a hot second Brandon was close enough that Phillip could even see his nose flaring with cold anger. "I should've locked you in the apartment and taken your key and wallet with me. Phillip, what do you think you're doing?"

     "Whatever I want, Brandon. I've as much right to go out for dinner as you."

     "You'd be less drunk if you'd eaten any dinner." But the anger passed quickly. Janet must've made quite an exit if Brandon was going to leave off sneering with nothing more biting than that, but there he was, lighting a cigarette and sitting on the next stool over. "Can you believe, she's decided all of a sudden that she wants more stability in her life! Something about a talk she had with Kenneth while he was in town, and now she wants to get herself situated. It sounds to me like he's the one she means to do it with, too. Well, that's fine with me, of course. They won't last, but if they did, she'd make Kenneth a fitting noose, don't you think?"

     "I think you're plenty settled without her, is what I think."

     There was affection in Brandon's sigh. He didn't think he was lying to himself when he told himself that much. It didn't quite make everything peachy, but what could he expect? An apology? Not from Brandon Shaw. And he liked Brandon unapologetic. He'd told himself often enough that he wouldn't want Brandon to apologize for any of the things he did, since it'd be a lie anyway. Having Brandon never lie -- to him -- mattered more than anything. And he pinched his lips tight shut to keep from saying any of that out loud so Brandon could laugh at him for it.

     "All right, Phillip..." Pulling him to his feet, Brandon kept him steady with a solid grip on his arm. "Pay your tab, and let's get you over to the table."

     He laid out bills on the bar, following but not quite clear on why. "What's at the table?"

     "Dinner. Janet and I only got as far as the soup, and you know I hate eating alone." They were at the table before Phillip realized, and now he was sitting, staring at a dish of soup, contemplating whether he really wanted to eat Janet's leftovers. It didn't look like she'd even picked up her spoon, but it was still her soup.

     "What if I'm not hungry?" Phillip asked.

     "I'm not going to ram it down your throat, if that's what you mean. As much as you've had to drink, I'd think you'd need something to eat so you're not up till all hours being sick, but I'm not your keeper, am I?"

     "No, you're not." Maybe he ought to walk out, just like Janet had. It'd serve Brandon right.

     A glimmer of silver cut through Phillip's mood. Not the watch displayed on Brandon's vest, but something more subtle. A bracelet on Brandon's right wrist peeked from under his shirt cuff, catching the light. It was the bracelet he'd gotten Brandon for his birthday, the one he'd thought would be just perfect. So brilliant and fine, it nearly glowed, like the person he'd bought it for. And it had suited Brandon so well, it seemed to become an indistinguishable part of him when he wore it. That'd almost disappointed Phillip, who'd wanted it to be some kind of a mark that was less invisible than he felt himself to be sometimes. Right now, though, he didn't mind that maybe no one had noticed it except him.

     Phillip picked up the soup spoon and took a bite, and it was delicious, of course. Some kind of seafood bisque too well seasoned for him to know what fish it'd been made from. It'd been transformed into a liquid distillation of, as near as Phillip could put words to it, a day spent sleeping on a beach near Marseilles. Brandon never picked a restaurant whose chefs made anything short of culinary art.

     "Thanks, Brandon," he said between sips.

     His lover contemplated the curling smoke from his cigarette, back in good humor at last. "You know, we should break out the Symposium when we get home. I think I'm in a mood for Plato."


	3. Chapter 3

     The Shaw farm was nothing like what Phillip would've expected, he thought, folding his shirt back into his luggage and pulling out his nightclothes. Any chores the family took part in seemed to be more for their entertainment than for practical purposes, and they had a full-time staff to take care of the mundane details. More than that, Mr. Shaw and Mrs. Shaw treated him like he was some kind of son. Maybe a bastard son Mr. Shaw had had with a maid or something, not a proper son, but nonetheless entitled to be seen with the family. He didn't think his own parents would've been nearly so blasé if they knew about him and Brandon.

     Although the song they had him play on their piano did feel a bit like an audition. And none of their high-class company that had to leave for the night wanted to approach Brandon when he was around. It might've been uncomfortable if Mr. Cadell, of all people, hadn't shown up. Phillip supposed it wasn't too surprising for the Shaws to have a former master from their son's prep school on their guest list, but it'd certainly surprised him.

     It was kind of a nice surprise. He'd forgotten how warm Mr. Cadell's eyes could be when he told a joke or something, and now that he was an adult, he got to hear all the things he wouldn't have told students he was trying to keep in line. For a second, he wished he'd stayed out to see Mr. Cadell off instead of vanishing into Brandon's room to make guest farewells less awkward.

     "Ah, Brandon," he heard from the hallway, muffled by the door but no doubt Mr. Cadell's voice. Phillip blinked in its general direction. "Do you mind pointing me at your phone? The dang car won't start, and I'll have to call Mrs. Wilson if I'm staying the night."

     "Of course, Mr. Cadell! It's--"

     "Now, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Rupert? I'm not your schoolmaster anymore. I'm not anybody's schoolmaster."

     "Rupert, then. And it's no trouble to use the phone. Do you want to put your things in the guest room first?"

     "The guest room? But what about Phillip?"

     The door cracked open, giving Phillip only a few options to deal with the fact that Brandon and Rupert were talking about him and about to walk in. Brandon, naturally, was laughing while he said, "Phillip?! Oh, well you see--"

     "I'm in here," Phillip bellowed before the farce could go any further.

     Opening the door all the way, Brandon peeked in, smirk at the ready. Mr. Cadell -- Rupert -- craned his head past Brandon's shoulder. Bemused, he seemed to be. But goodness only knew what the man was thinking. He had the kind of poker face even Brandon could only envy.

     "So you are, Phillip. So you are. Well, if you don't need the guest room bed, I suppose I'll help myself, then."

     "I don't need it. Thanks."

     And leave it to Brandon to make the scene just that touch more awkward than it already was, motioning Rupert into the room while Phillip busied himself with buttoning his pajama shirt. The least Brandon could've done was ask if he was naked or not before opening the door!

     "Since Phillip seems to be decent, why don't you use the phone in here? Right by the bedside."

     "If... you don't mind, Phillip."

     "Go right ahead," he told Rupert, but he was looking Brandon square in the eye. His lover's smile only seemed to get brighter as he put his revolver on his bedside table and they listened to Rupert giving instructions to his housekeeper. It didn't take too long for the conversation to wind down.

     "All right, thank you, Mrs. Wilson. ... Yes. ... Yes, that's right, and I'll be home in time for dinner tomorrow. Good night."

     Brandon stepped back into the middle of the action. "Everything taken care of, R-Rupert?"

     "Should be. Pity I'll have to let Mrs. Wilson go, now that I'm living on a poor publisher's income. She was the best housekeeper I ever had. I hate to send her out looking for another job."

     "Why don't Phillip and I take her on?"

     Brandon stepped closer, draping an arm around Phillip's shoulders. His heart jumped into his throat, feeling a squeeze on his arm, being almost in an embrace in front of another person -- Rupert Cadell no less -- not to mention that he was undressed. But how was he supposed to tell Brandon that this was taking it a little far without picking a fight? So he smiled along with Brandon's bit of conversation.

     "We've been thinking we might want a housekeeper, haven't we, Phillip?"

     "S-sure." They hadn't, but what would the harm be?

     "Two college boys like us, when do we have time to cook a proper meal? A good housekeeper would be e-exactly what we need."

     "You and Phillip, huh?"

     Phillip didn't know what he expected to see from Rupert Cadell if he ever found out about them. It'd never crossed his mind that he would, between the constant knowledge that no one in society was supposed to know and failing to realize that their house master was ever going to be back in their lives. Brandon must've known something he didn't, to be so sure of Rupert's approval that he was puffing out his chest like a peacock when normally he'd be the one warning Phillip to shut his mouth before someone realized their little secret. And as always, Brandon was right. The look in Rupert's eyes wasn't scandalized or horrified, as if anything could scandalize a real philosopher. Instead, he managed to look melancholy and proud all at the same time. Phillip had forgotten how a single expression from their old teacher could make him feel more keenly than any lecture whether he'd done right or wrong, and this expression practically made him glow with the feeling that, this time, maybe he'd done something right. It was a little like the look his parents had given him when they'd packed him off on the train for boarding school.

     "Well," Rupert said, nodding at them both. "You always were thick as thieves, you two. Ever since that stunt you pulled, taking my cigarettes."

     Brandon scoffed. "You knew?"

     "I can count my own damn cigarettes, Brandon, and I can tell when two boys come in to dinner looking green and smelling like tobacco. You're not the first troublemaker I ever laid eyes on."

     "I suppose that's true."

     The professor picked up his bag. "All right, then. Shall I offer you my congratulations?"

     "For hiring your housekeeper?" Brandon laughed, when he knew full well that wasn't it. Phillip could've strangled him. This whole scene was awkward enough already. "Or were you talking about something else?"

     Rupert narrowed his eyes, shaking off the question as if it were a joke. "I don't know what it is, Brandon, but whenever I talk to you, I feel like you're waiting for me to say, 'I give up, you win'. But I can't for the life of me tell what we're fighting over."

     "What an odd thing to say!" Brandon laughed one more time.

     "It's an odd thing to feel."

     Breaking away from Brandon's arm, Phillip growled, "Oh, let the man go to sleep. It's late. Good night, Rupert. It's good to see you again."

     "You, too, Phillip. Good night, both of you."

     The silence after the door clicked shut could only last so long. After all these years, Phillip could feel Brandon's laugh starting before he could hear it. Tossing some small piece of metal in his hand, Brandon walked around him and locked the door.

     "What've you got there?" Phillip asked.

     "Oh, nothing," Brandon answered, strolling toward his nightstand. "Just Rupert's spark plug."

     "You didn't!"

     "Why wouldn't I? Don't worry, I'll put it back before breakfast."

     "Well, next time you do something like that, ask if I'm decent before assuming I am and bringing somebody into our bedroom."

     Brandon still kissed like there was nothing to be afraid of, and every time he did, Phillip couldn't stay mad at him for long. It wasn't fair. At the end of the day, though, Phillip figured he'd rather have it than not, even if nothing about their life was really fair. Even if he knew that Brandon was never really sorry when he whispered in gentle breaths across his skin, "Of course. My mistake."

~ / _mea culpa_ /~


End file.
